


Sadistic Justice

by thatstarlitsky



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Bloodplay, Bondage, Breathplay, Crime Scenes, Crimes & Criminals, Drug Use, Harley Quinn Yeosang, I don't usually write this stuff, I tried to be gentle, Knifeplay, M/M, Murder, Not for faint hearted, Poison Ivy Mingi, This author is going to hell, Threesome - M/M/M, You Have Been Warned, lots of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 16:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21322927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatstarlitsky/pseuds/thatstarlitsky
Summary: The last six years of Detective Choi San’s life had lead up to this moment. He would find out the truth behind the vicious string of murders, and discover the person who used people as their canvases. He was looking forward to it – perhaps a little too much.
Relationships: Choi San/Kang Yeosang/Song Mingi
Comments: 41
Kudos: 162





	Sadistic Justice

**Author's Note:**

> Was scrolling the beautiful world of ATINY Stan Twitter and came across some fanart by user @noriimorii featuring [Mingi as Poison Ivy, San the cop, and Yeosang’s now infamous Harley Quinn Halloween costume.](https://twitter.com/Noriimorii/status/1191352566249951233) I was trying to stay out of this one, but honestly. Honestly. This bit of fanart got the wheels to finally align just right to bring out the worst of me. Was it the vines wrapped around San’s neck? Yes. Yes, it absolutely was. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I HAVE NEVER WATCHED A SINGLE BATMAN MOVIE, SEEN SUICIDE SQUAD, OR READ A DC COMIC BOOK. If this doesn’t match your memories, my apologies.
> 
> I am so going to hell for this.
> 
> Beta'd by Mina ( love you bebu <3 ) but I'll probably edit this more later on when I'm less feral. (I wrote this in the span of like 24 hours r i p)

The corkboard was the dumbest idea San had ever come up with. It was straight out of a low-budget crime drama, the worst kinds of movies that ran at all hours of the night, and was regularly joked about among the detectives at his firm when things became more befuddling than a broken Rubix cube. But there was something about laying out all of the facts – every last connection, no matter how small – onto every surface of his office wall that made the picture come clearer than glass. For the last six years, he’d been made fun of – scorned and mocked for taking on the _impossible_ case and tackling it in such a ludicrous way.

But it had paid off.

San sipped his seventh coffee of the day, his eyes darting between newspaper clippings describing in muted, safe for the public words, the murders that had been plaguing Seoul since before he’d joined the force. Crime scene photographs laid next to each one, depicting the images that turned the stomachs of even the most experienced coroners. His youth and lack of experience scarcely mattered when San had been the only detective who had looked at the photos without flinching or breaking down after several hours of reading detailed descriptions of the victim’s injuries. 

First came the beating – just enough head trauma to knock a victim unconscious. The half-healed bruising on the scalp suggested a prolonged time between the initial injury and time of death. New bruises appeared one by one, spread out to give the previous one’s time to heal. The injuries were paint being spread over a canvas and left to dry. Each stroke of the brush rarely overlapped the ones beneath it, leaving the skin a mottled blue, pink, yellow and green.

Then were the puncture wounds. Some were hair thin, piercing into nerves and tendons – slipping between joints and under soft fingernails. Others were as large as fence posts, and the gangrene bordering them suggested long-term impalement. Most were the thickness of a pencil, slipping just shy of vital organs. Rope burns usually covered the victim’s body, concentrated around the wrists and ankles. The coroner had checked every body, but he still had yet to figure out exactly what kind of rope was being used. San had suggested some form of plastic covered cording – like electrical wire, or even duct tape rolled into ropes. Perhaps reeds from the shores of local lakes, twisted and woven together. His ideas were considered, but later rejected. Someone had even dared ask how he’d thought of such things.

Finally, the body was dumped, usually in an alley behind a dumpster where someone taking out the trash would find it. Each one was left with a mark: a single, bloody handprint with a green sprig of poison ivy. San was always the first on the scene when the mark was spotted. He was always the first to bend over the body and admire the sickening injuries – the delicate accuracy of the puncture wounds, and the bloody marks left by a hand with elegant fingers.

The killer favoured men – usually young, some middle-aged. They were struggling businessmen who were known to have accumulated enough debt to destroy their prospects. San had juggled with the idea of loan sharks in the past, something everyone now believed to be true, but it didn’t explain their motives. A shark couldn’t collect if their debtors were dead.

And yet, the killer had no shortage of victims who shared the same traits. There was a fresh body every few months. San would’ve put money on the Blood Ivy killer holding their victim’s captive and toying with them until they succumbed to their injuries and then tied up the next one. It meant that right now, there could be more than one victim locked in their dungeon.

But none of that would matter now. San had finally cracked the case. He knew where the Blood Ivy killer was hiding. Now, he just had to wait for the assault team to be assembled. He didn’t want to wait anymore. He wanted to see the face of the one who had torn bodies apart and shattered families. He wanted to discover if the Blood Ivy killer was male or female. He wanted to _know_ who had turned human bodies into paintings on battered canvas. He’d followed the trail of eyewitness reports – terrified whispers of screams coming from the funhouse in the old amusement park. Teenagers who had gone in late at night and never came back out.

San knocked back the last of his cold coffee and slammed the mug down. “Hurry the fuck up,” he hissed into his empty office. How long did it take to assemble a simple sting operation? San could’ve gone in on his own by now – played the part of a confused bystander who just _happened_ to wander into the wrong place at the wrong time. He might never come back out again, but he would finally have the answers he’d worked so hard for.

The phone on his desk rang; a sharp, ruthless sound that shattered San’s growing impatience. He yanked the phone out of its cradle before it had finished the second ring.

“Detective Choi,” he said, pressing it to his ear hard enough that it hurt.

_“They’re ready for you, Detective. Please report,”_ the voice responded.

San was already grabbing his hat. “I’m on my way.” His phone almost missed the receiver. The office door slammed shut behind him, and he didn’t bother locking it. There was nothing in his office worth protecting now that the case had been solved.

He was only partially aware of what was to come. Their decoy – a young cop disguised as a business man – would approach the building and claim to have a payment for his outstanding debt. San tried not to roll his eyes, worried that the potentially false alibi would shut down their attempts to arrest the Blood Ivy killer before it had even started. The decoy would go inside the fun house with a camera, and when the killer was distracted...

San shivered in anticipation.

He rode in the back of the van to the deployment site, his skin tingling as every nerve in his body fired on overdrive. He tried not to let it show on his face, ignoring the whispered concerns of the assault team as they wondered if this would work – how amazed they were that such a young detective had cracked the case. San chewed his lip idly. He tasted blood. He swallowed it and sucked on the injury.

San had front row seats to the cameras. His teeth chewed small cankers into the inside of his mouth – his restless habit. _Hurry up_, he tried not to shout. He wanted to _see_. He wanted to _know._

“Get ready, detective,” the assault team’s leader – San didn’t bother reading his name – said. “As soon as our target is sighted, we’re going in. Once we’ve secured the perimeter, you may see what you’ve led us to.”

San nodded. He made himself comfortable and hoped this wouldn’t take long.

From the cameras, he watched the decoy enter the building. He turned up the volume, listening to his nervous breaths. There was a laugh – cold, and chilling – deep and throbbing like the echo of a bass drum.

_“Who are you, darling? We’ve never seen you before...”_

San nearly ripped the screen off the dashboard in his urge to get closer. The camera stuttered – San nearly shouted at the decoy to _be still_ so he could see. He caught a flash of red and blue and a bloodstained baseball bat. He heard a scream of terror, and the decoy bolted.

The audio feed became a cacophony of shouts from the assault team. San nearly stood in the cabin of the van, his head brushing the ceiling as he silently begged them not to shoot. He wouldn’t get to _know_ if they killed the Blood Ivy killer. He heard the echoing _“Drop your weapons!” _and the distinct clatter of metal pinging against stone as the Blood Ivy killer surrendered.

San only had to wait another ten minutes before his radio crackled.

_“Detective Choi, the perimeter is secure. Please report.”_

San responded his affirmative and threw himself from the van. He fought the urge to run towards the funhouse. If his skin wasn’t tingling before, it was now. His body was on fire – every footstep sounded gunshots in his ears. He chewed his lip once more.

The funhouse sat at the center of the amusement park – the perfect place to hide in plain sight and detect trespassers before they came in. For a moment, San paused, observing the worn-out painted clown face on the side of the building. He tapped his fingertip on the crumbling brickwork thoughtfully. He smiled and stifled a laugh.

He understood.

The funhouse was dark, but the flashlights from the assault team lit up the distant hallways. San only took a second to straighten his jacket in the cracked mirror. His eyes followed the trail of dried blood dripping down the glass. He looked away, resisting the urge to trace it with his fingertips instead.

Blood Ivy had been caught at the center of the funhouse in a room with broken walls and a leaky roof patched with metal sheets. As San took in the image of Blood Ivy handcuffed, he felt a wild thrill. He couldn’t hold in his laughter, or the grin that stretched across his lips.

Blood Ivy had never been a _person_. He looked over the two men his investigation had caught in chains. One had hair a shade of flaming red that remained bright, even without the proper funhouse lighting. His baggy green sweater was falling off one shoulder. There was a tattoo of ivy leaves stretching up his clavicle and clinging to his neck, just behind his ear. The other had grown his hair into wild blonde pigtails and dyed one blue, and the other red. His clothing – a crop top and torn white jeans covering fishnet leggings – left almost nothing to San’s imagination. They looked back at him, their gazes unafraid. San tilted his head to the side and turned towards the assault team’s leader.

“Good work,” he said.

“We couldn’t have done it without you, Detective,” he responded.

San saw something green in the corner of his eye – a snake, slithering up the walls. He watched it, listening to the sound of the assault team’s captain fumble with his radio. He’d mysteriously lost signal. San didn’t hear the request to borrow his radio. He was too busy watching the ivy as it snaked up...up...over...

The leader’s repeated question was crushed as the noose lunged. It wrapped around his throat and yanked upwards. The captain’s body fell limp to the concrete floor. San watched – he only watched – as hysteria flooded the funhouse. One by one, the assault team fell – blood spurted over the walls as thick tendrils of ivy plunged through their bodies.

_Puncture wounds,_ San thought with fascination. This was how they’d done it. It was prettier than the standard broken metal pipes and surgical needles. He heard a plea for mercy. He listened to it turn into a gurgle. The concrete floor of the funhouse and the crumbling walls became abstract art – acrylic paint poured onto flat surfaces and sprayed in every direction with playful flicks of the brush.

The vines came for him next. They rolled up his ankle, around his hips and yanked his wrists behind his back. Restrained, San watched as the two men that formed Blood Ivy rose to their feet. The handcuffs dropped with a metallic clatter. The ivy that had picked the locks retreated into the red-haired man’s sweater.

“Choi San,” he said in a silky voice, stepping towards him. The ivy that connected them was curling from the leg of his cargo pants. The excess wiggled and slipped out of sight as he approached. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Were you?” San questioned. He shivered as the vines tightened around him. He felt the pinch of thorns against his wrists.

The man with the pigtails laughed and brushed a hand over the back of his neck. “We knew you’d come,” he said, his voice surprisingly deep for such a pretty face. “We’ve been watching you. We saw you at every body. You know, don’t you? You understand.”

San took a shuddering breath as the vines snaked higher. A tendril wrapped around his throat, the thorns scratching softly against his skin. He bit back a moan.

“This hat looks terrible on you, puddin’,” the man with the pigtails said, snatching it from his head. San glanced back at him. His hair fluttered in the cold drafts of the funhouse. The red and blue hair – like the lights on top of a police car – contrasted with the dark fabric of the police hat.

“Are you going to kill me too?” San asked.

“No,” the red-haired man replied. “Why would we kill you? You understand us.” The ivy on his shoulder began to shift. What San had thought were tattoos was ivy tucked flush against his skin. It slid from his sleeve and curled around his hand. San felt the brush of leaves on his cheek as hot fingers tilted his face upwards. The devils snare around his throat climbed him like a trellis. San gasped, feeling them tighten once more.

“We _like_ you, puddin’.” Hands gripped his hips from behind. San closed his eyes. “We want you. You have ideas, too. I’ve seen them. I want your marks next to mine...next to Mingi’s.”

San met Mingi’s emerald eyes. He watched the ivy leaves creeping closer. They spread like fragile fans, brushing along his chin. Without thinking, he parted his lips. A single tendril slipped between them, stroking over the tip of his tongue. San trembled and sucked softly on it, feeling the heat rise in his chest. Mingi’s ivy tasted like blood – or perhaps that was the holes he’d chewed into his lips.

“Yeosang,” Mingi said softly, never taking his eyes off San, letting him mouth over the leaf between his lips. “I want him.”

Yeosang threw the hat away with a chortle. It landed with a _plop_ somewhere in the funhouse. “Don’t forget to share,” he purred.

“Hm—” San gasped around the leaf, feeling his arms pulled tighter against his back. Yeosang’s fingers were cold where they brushed just beneath his shirt, skirting the lines of his hip bones. He unbuckled his utility belt with a deft flick of his graceful fingers. His defensive weapons fell to the floor with an audible rattle. San didn’t miss them.

Mingi’s free hand rose, cupping his cheek. He licked his lips, watching San’s mouth move – watching him kiss the leaf he’d given him. His breathing was growing heavy, and San wondered if Mingi’s vines were extensions of himself; if they were just as sensitive to touch as his skin would be. Curiously, he nibbled softly on the edge of the leaf. Mingi’s knees trembled. His pupils dilated. San smiled.

“Careful, puddin’,” Yeosang chortled beside his ear. His hands inched towards the button of his pants. “Mingi’s poisonous.”

“It’s not so bad,” Mingi said, his thumb stroking along San’s lip. “It’ll make you high for a few hours – Yeosang loves it.”

“And Mingi loves it when you eat his ivy,” Yeosang hummed, his teeth sinking into San’s ear. He plucked the button open and pushed down the zipper. They fell to his ankles at the smallest brush of his fingertips. The vines took advantage of the fresh skin to squeeze his thighs. San exhaled shakily. The leaf in his mouth shifted, finding a new angle – sinking into the wet heat of his mouth. San didn’t hesitate. His teeth found the stem and bit down. Mingi gasped, his fingers curling in feral pleasure against San’s cheeks.

“Oh,” he panted. “San...”

San chewed and swallowed the leaf. He felt it slide wetly down his throat, leaving a grassy, slightly acidic aftertaste. Yeosang laughed, pressing against San’s back. His cock was hard where it pressed into his thigh. “I _knew_ you would be great for this.”

San wished his hands were free. He wished he could grab Mingi’s baggy sweater and yank him against his body. The leaf he’d eaten was already growing back. The vines ensnaring his body were tightening...tightening...

His head fell back as the ivy curled tight enough to choke him. Mingi watched hungrily, pink tongue wetting his lips as San tried to draw breath. As he squirmed, a thin, broken sound filled the funhouse. San didn’t realize he was the one making the sound.

Mingi let go just as his vision started to go dark. San shuddered, his head falling back onto Yeosang’s shoulder. The vines kept their grip, shifting and sliding – but they didn’t squeeze again.

“Not much longer now, puddin’,” Yeosang purred, stroking San’s abdomen. He teased the elastic of his boxers. The funhouse was becoming hazy...

It started slowly – a soft fuzziness at the corner of his mind. It made everything brighter, yet softer at the same time. He felt a slow, languid curling in his stomach. It was hot and cold. He felt alive, yet asleep in a dream. He hovered in a bliss he couldn’t fully describe, but was all too happy to sink in to. He moaned. Mingi’s lips touched the curve of his jawline.

“It makes everything that much better,” Mingi purred.

“Ah...” San felt his body becoming limp. The vines clutched his body tighter, supporting him. Yeosang shoved his underwear down and left it with his trousers. San was almost embarrassed by how hard he was – almost.

“Here’s how we’ll do this, puddin’,” Yeosang murmured in his ear. “I’m going to prep you. Then, Mingi’s going to take your pretty ass for a ride. We like it loud, puddin’. Don’t forget that. If you’re a good boy, you’ll get a present.”

“Uh huh,” San hummed.

Yeosang laughed, his cold hands falling on San’s ass. He gasped, squirming weakly as his cheeks were stretched apart and left him exposed. He hadn’t realized Yeosang had dropped to his knees behind him until he felt the tongue lick into him.

San keened. Mingi’s vines were the only thing keeping him firmly in place. His shoes scuffed the dirt at his feet. Mingi’s drug had turned him hypersensitive. Yeosang’s touches were quick, but thorough – winding him up and driving him into ecstasy. He kept San just on that cusp between pain and pleasure. San was drowning in it. He trembled in Mingi’s vines, feeling them shift over him, squeezing and pulling. Thorns dug deeper into the flesh of his arms. San moaned through the pain.

At his throat, Mingi was kissing him. His teeth were biting and nibbling as the leaves brushed butterfly kisses along his cheeks. San caught one between his lips, and Mingi groaned. He whimpered around it, only letting go when a sharp thrust of Yeosang’s fingers drove against his prostate.

“H-Hah—” San cried. Everything was on double-time. Each sensation was so much slower – so much more pleasurable. The waves that rolled through body with each touch of Yeosang’s fingers drove him closer to the edge. He felt a vine wrap around his cock. It tightened, and San screamed in frustration as he came dry. Yeosang hummed in satisfaction.

“He’s ready to go,” Yeosang purred.

Limp and tangled in vines, he could do nothing as he was twisted around to face away from Mingi. San looked up at Yeosang’s dark, wild eyes. His crimson lipstick was smeared across his cheeks. San wanted to mess it up even more. Yeosang was delightfully pretty. He closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath.

“Look at me, puddin’,” Yeosang said, catching his chin. “I want to see you fall apart...”

San obeyed, meeting Yeosang’s eyes once more. Stained lips curled into a crooked grin. San felt his ass cheeks part once more.

Mingi wasn’t small. San gasped, shaking in the grip of the vines that only grew tighter. Leaves curled around his hips where Mingi’s hands held him steady. He thrust hard into San’s ass, and he couldn’t bite back a moan. Breaking his eye contact with Yeosang, San’s head fell towards his chest. The vines around his throat tightened in response, clenching just beneath his chin. San sobbed breathlessly, the pleasure only rising with his hypersensitivity. He couldn’t tell the difference between dizziness induced by hypoxia, and the floating feeling of Mingi’s drug.

Yeosang pushed his head back up and licked his crimson lips. He kissed San with a slow deliberateness that left him panting. He was certain that the blood he was tasting was Yeosang’s lipstick.

Mingi’s thrusts grew rougher. Yeosang’s tongue plunged into his mouth. San took it all. He took every powerful thrust, every squeeze of his verdant snare, and every bite Yeosang left on his lips. Denied another orgasm by the ivy still restraining his cock, San cried out brokenly. The sound was swallowed by Yeosang’s lips, and the vines around his neck tightened once more.

Mingi came with a groan, his ivy squeezing as he rode his orgasm in San’s ass. As it slowly loosened, San tried to catch his breath. Yeosang dove on him before he could manage it.

“_My turn,_” he purred. San shuddered, his head spinning with Mingi’s drug, and the prospect of what was to come. “Mingi, I want this off.” He tugged on the police vest, bound in place by Mingi’s vines.

“Cut it off,” Mingi replied, his soft cock still buried in San’s ass. “I’m not letting him go. I like his heartbeat.”

Yeosang’s grin was wild. His hand slipped into the pocket of his jeans. He splayed his painted fingernails over his thigh as he drew out the knife – a small folding blade with a wicked edge.

“Hold still, puddin’,” Yeosang said, stepping towards him. “You won’t need this anymore.”

San couldn’t move if he tried. Mingi’s vines held him fast, and Yeosang’s knife slowly sliced his uniform to ribbons. Yeosang yanked strips free of Mingi’s grip little by little and discarded them on the bloodied concrete. San gasped when the knife slipped and pierced his skin. The blood dripped down the metal blade, shining silvery red. Yeosang licked it off, painting his lips crimson once more.

As the last of the fabric peeled away, Mingi’s vines gripped his bare chest. Thorns dug into his skin and scratched along his torso. San watched the blood drip with muted fascination. Yeosang leaned forward lapped it up with a soft hum of pleasure.

“He’s so beautiful, isn’t he Mingi?” Yeosang sighed, his knife glinting as he scraped the blunt edge across his clavicle. “I want to turn him into a painting...”

_I want to turn _you_ into a painting,_ San thought viciously. Yeosang’s pale skin would be so pretty with hair thin knife strokes – with purple and pink bruises – with bloody handprints, and wrapped in curls of ivy. San cracked a dizzy smile when he realized _he_ looked like that.

His thought was crushed when the blade slowly slipped into his skin. He squirmed in response to the sensation. The drug had heightened his pain receptors too. The thorns dug deeper and San whimpered. Yeosang’s knife painted slow strokes against his chest. Each cut was small – just enough to slit the skin and let the blood flow freely. Yeosang’s mouth lingered over each one, prolonging the sensation. Mingi’s lips were back against his throat. Ivy tendrils stroked through his hair like soft fingers.

The bite of cold metal on his nipple broke him once more. San shrieked, thrashing in the restraints that held fast. Yeosang’s tongue curled around the erect nub, licking the small dribbles of blood away. Mingi’s fingers rubbed circles against his chest in an effort to bring him back to calm.

“Are you going to say ‘red’?” Mingi asked, the amusement lingering in his voice.

San tried to catch his breath. His eyes felt hot and wet. He’d been wrapped in thorn covered vines, choked until he nearly fainted, fucked while blood coated lips kissed him, and cut by knives. He was wound up, and being denied an orgasm twice was turning his cock a painful shade of red. The languid, drug induced throbbing in his body had him moaning on every exhale.

San _loved_ this.

“No,” he panted. “Do it again.”

Yeosang laughed – high and cold. The knife came down and San moaned as the tip of the blade nicked his untouched one. Yeosang purred, sucking luxuriously on the bleeding nub. The soft laps of his tongue only made San’s trembling more intense. He pulled at the bindings around his wrists, desperate to have them release. He would cut the fishnets off Yeosang’s legs without caring about the flesh underneath. He wanted to pull those pigtails – shove his pretty ass in the air and fuck him raw. He wanted to do that while Mingi’s vines held him back just enough, because San didn’t think he could keep from _really_ hurting the beautiful man without his help. Yeosang licked the blood from his lips, and San snarled. The feral sound made Yeosang’s eyebrows raise.

“What do you want, puddin’?” Yeosang asked, trailing a bloodstained finger down his cheek. “Shall I finish you off?”

“When I get my hands on you,” San growled, pulling at his wrists once more. Mingi’s bindings held fast. “I’m going to bring you to your knees and paint you until you’re screaming.”

Yeosang laughed, cupping his cheeks in his palms. “Oh, puddin’...you’ll get your turn.”

He was spun around and pressed against Mingi’s chest. Ivy leaves stroked over his skin, shifting and turning. San trembled at the delicate touches. They were a deadly contrast to the scratch of Yeosang’s nails down his back. He whimpered and sucked a mark into Mingi’s shoulder. The man gasped softly and tugged on San’s hair.

Yeosang didn’t try to be gentle. He shoved his cock deep into San’s ass in a single stroke. He was smaller than Mingi, but his ruthless thrusts demanded San’s reactions. Before he knew it, he was moaning, and Mingi’s hand was yanking his head back so it echoed through the funhouse. He felt the knife cut into his back. Yeosang’s lips eagerly sucked up the blood.

From Mingi’s sleeve, a tendril of ivy crept over San’s shoulder and down Yeosang’s back. He felt the man tremble against him, his thrusts pausing just long enough for San to become impatient.

“M-Mingi—” Yeosang stammered before he was shoving his hips into San’s ass with more reckless energy than before.

“You like this,” Mingi said with a smirk. “Don’t pretend.”

Yeosang let out a broken sob, his hips stuttering unevenly. San felt the vines holding his orgasm back loosen just enough to stroke him. Leaves brushed tantalizing circles along his oversensitive cock. They retreated just before he could cum. San whimpered. Mingi’s hot breath brushed over his lips.

“Want to find out what Yeosang is feeling?” he asked.

Yeosang’s cries were growing louder. San nodded his head.

He felt the brush of ivy along his hips once more. It slid around the curve of his ass and slipped between his cheeks.

“Oh—” San gasped, and he heard Yeosang let out a whimper. His hips slid to a stop for a few, breathless seconds. When he slid back in once more, San felt the motions of the ivy inside of him along with Yeosang’s throbbing length. The soft tendrils curved and prodded, seeking the spots that would make San see stars. They found them, and San nearly doubled over with pleasure as Yeosang’s hips slapped lewdly against the backs of his thighs.

Thick fingers brushed his aching cock. San choked on a moan, his back arching in the grip of the vines. By the time Yeosang was struggling to maintain a rhythm, San’s orgasm washed over him, and his body clenched tight around the pretty man. Yeosang gasped, his body shuddering in response. San felt the thick wetness fill him once more. The vines retreated along with Yeosang’s softening length.

“M-Ming—” Yeosang gasped. He heard the sound of metal clinking to the concrete as the knife fell from his shaky fingers.

Shh,” Mingi silenced him. San felt the hands leave his hips. The vines holding him steady loosened. Mingi had set him free.

When he turned around, Yeosang was writhing. Mingi’s vines were curling and binding him, just like they’d tied San before. He licked his lips. He found the knife Yeosang had dropped.

He picked it up.

“San’s been a good boy,” Mingi said, nudging him forward with a hot hand. “I think it’s time for his present.”

Yeosang whimpered. His dark eyes were blown wide. A pink trail of bloody lipstick was dripping down his chin. Even if he’d already had one release, he was hardening all over again. San held up the knife. Yeosang followed it with his eyes. Slowly, he sliced away Yeosang’s tattered crop top. There were already a handful of sliver-thin knife scars on the man’s chest, but San would soon add his own.

Yeosang sobbed as San slowly carved his name against the beautiful man’s chest. He watched the blood drip; poured paint over a flawless canvas. He didn’t lick it up – he only watched it contrast perfectly with the skin beneath it. He felt a hunger for more. Here, on Yeosang’s body, he could do what he’d always dreamed of doing. Every other man had fled at the mere mention of San’s obsession – of his desire to watch the organic way blood dripped and moved over the curves of a body – against a wall – how it soaked into cloth – the way it emerged ruby red and dried onyx black. It was one of his motivations for getting into the field of criminal justice. He could look at blood the way he wanted to without being called a psychopath. He could admire – watch – and observe the art and beauty that came in death.

Mingi’s vines pushed the knife from his fingers, snapping him out of his revelry. San licked his lips and admired his work. Yeosang was shaking; laughing; crying. He’d cum a second time, completely untouched. San reached for him with unexpectedly clean fingers and yanked his head back to admire the effect he’d had on him.

Yeosang cackled. His eyeliner was dripping down his cheeks from his wet eyes. “You _are_ one of us.”

San watched Mingi’s vines release Yeosang’s body and lower him to the ground. In the dim lighting of the funhouse, surrounded by the bloody remains of the assault team, he knew he was right.

\--

It had been six months since the failed sting operation had killed ten of Seoul’s police department’s finest. The disappearance of Detective Choi San was equally as alarming as the crime scene left behind in the funhouse.

Detective Jung Yunho admired the extensive clues Detective Choi San had collected in the six years he’d hunted the Blood Ivy killer. Each clue pointed to the funhouse – the place that no longer hid the serial killer that now struck fear into the hearts of the general public and the police force alike. Nobody wanted to take this case anymore – not after the tragedy that had befallen the operation. Yunho had come in from Busan to take the case. But even though he’d stared at the clues for weeks on end, he didn’t know where to start. With the video footage of the operation missing, there were no further leads to follow – no faces to show to the public. There were no eye-witnesses. They were back to square one, waiting for bodies to start appearing once more. Some were hopefully whispering that the Blood Ivy killer had moved on. Yunho had read enough stories of murderers in law school that he knew it was too much to hope for.

The phone rang on his desk – the desk that had once belonged to the missing Detective Choi. He scooped it up on the third ring.

“Detective Jung speaking,” Yunho said politely, leaning back in the chair. His eyes focused on a particularly brutal photo of the Blood Ivy killer’s funhouse massacre. Before they’d left the bodies to rot, they’d left a single sprig of ivy on each one to make sure everyone knew who was responsible.

_“Detective,”_ the voice was shaken. Yunho frowned and leaned forward. _“We’ve found another one. Report immediately.”_

Yunho scribbled down the address and dropped the phone into the cradle. He locked the office door behind him. The plaque still read _Detective Choi San_. Yunho would have to get that changed soon.

With his sirens wailing, it didn’t take Yunho long to reach the latest body drop. Just like the previous ones, the body had been left behind a dumpster. Yunho could faintly see the pale outline of an arm when he slipped behind the police barricade.

“Detective,” Officer Han said, his face pale as he approached him. “I thought I should warn you...Something’s different about this one.”

“Let me see it,” Yunho said, nudging him aside.

The forensics team was on standby, their tools clutched in white knuckle grips. They looked at Yunho with fear in their eyes before they were looking back down at the body. With a muted sense of horror, Yunho took in what had changed. He cracked a small smile.

“Well,” Yunho said, leaning over the body. “Things just got interesting.”

The mottled bruising and disturbingly accurate puncture wounds that made the Blood Ivy killer’s work stand out was still there. But alongside the still faintly oozing holes in the body’s were the marks of a razor. The blood had been allowed to drip as the blade carved intricate designs into the victim’s naked chest. It created a horrifying spectacle, but it wasn’t what had caught Yunho’s attention.

Left behind next to the sprig of ivy, was a single playing card facing upwards. A thin man in a jester’s hat – a sickening grin on his face.

The Joker.

**Author's Note:**

> It's pretty warm down here.
> 
> Catch me on Twitter @thatstarlitsky ~ I spam ATEEZ and ASTRO almost 24/7.
> 
> Thanks for reading ^^


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